


Carol Danvers, Tee-ball Coach.

by queercapwriting (queergirlwriting)



Series: Where's Your Head At? [31]
Category: Captain Marvel (2019)
Genre: F/F, Wholesome Family Fun, because this family is Precious, danbeau, danbeau family, i just, i need this fanart tbh, in her little baseball cap, maria loves her wife, these domestic children, with her little flannel around her waist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-04 21:16:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18820891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queergirlwriting/pseuds/queercapwriting
Summary: prompt from @kriskv717: “Carol would be a coach for Monica playing t-ball or soccer or something”





	Carol Danvers, Tee-ball Coach.

Carol had laughed - snorted, really, before it turned into a full-blown belly laugh - the first time Maria suggested she’d be great with kids, when they were still in flight school.

“I wouldn’t know the first thing to do with them,” she’d choked out between chortles. “And anyway, all I was as a kid was traumatized, so how would I even know what a regular, healthy interaction with a kid looks like?”

Monica had just raised her eyebrows at the time, and let it go. Which was rare, because Maria wasn’t the type to let anything go.

But sure enough, one of their friends - one of the few other women on base - had had a childcare emergency a few weeks later, and Carol was alternating between crawling all over the floor and simulating flying with that kid.

And when it was time for Maria to have her own, Carol didn’t hesitate.

“We’re having a baby?” she’d whispered reverently.

She’d read to the creature growing in Maria’s body, and she’d kissed her belly every morning and every night, and she’d tried - until Maria begged her to stop - to sing to the baby, too.

Monica.

Little Monica. Lieutenant Trouble, as Carol would dub her when she kept both her parents up all night, every night.

And now that Monica was five, and actually slept through the night, all she wanted to was join her moms on flights (she’d have to wait on that one) and play t-ball with the other boys in her grade.

“Aren’t there kids who aren’t boys on the t-ball team?” Carol asked, gentle and careful, as Monica sprawled across both her moms’ laps and explained her dream of whacking a baseball over a fence.

She’d shaken her head gravely, and Carol had covered her face in kisses before turning to Maria.

“Well,” she said, “we can’t have that.”

The school league didn’t take too well to Carol and Maria’s insistence on letting Monica play on the boys’ team, or forming a girls’ team, or just making the whole darn thing co-ed.

So the two dug into their resources in the military family community, and started their own scrappy little all gender team.

Carol coached the team Monica wound up on, and Maria’s favorite past time became watching Carol every Saturday morning, wrangling together a group of five-year-olds in Sponsored By Pancho’s team t-shirts, offering high fives to the more reserved kids and scooping up and flying the more outgoing ones.

She loved watching Carol get down on one knee to help the kids who kept trying to put their mitts onto their dominant hands, and she loved even more watching how excited she got when they actually hit the ball off the tee instead of swinging the bat and missing so spectacularly they spun themselves all the way around and down onto their backsides.

(Truth be told, she loved watching Carol’s reactions to their little spills, too: always a combination of kind, encouraging, and deeply amused, Carol’s face was a canvas of utterly peaceful emotions under that tattered old baseball cap.)

“Next up: Lieutenant Trouble!” she would announce when their daughter was up to bat, and Maria would cheer as her daughter stepped up to the tee, tapped her bat around home plate just like she’d watched Carol do hundreds of times, and connect with a satisfying plunk.

She’d join in, inevitably, after games when the entire team of kindergarteners would chase Carol around the bases to celebrate a game well played. She would lead the tickling charge, and she would relish the way Carol’s face looked smudged with dirt and happiness, not a care in the entire galaxy.

And, sometimes, when the children and their parents were too distracted by ice cream cones to notice, Maria would hold Carol’s hand and kiss her knuckles in the back of the ice cream parlor where they’d always take the kids after games.

And, always, she would eat Carol’s entire cone herself, with a little help from their daughter.

And, always, their Saturday mornings were perfect.


End file.
